Two Saints and an Archer
by AngelxPhoenix
Summary: Connor and Murphy MacManus were vigilantes on a mission from God before the zombie outbreak, now God only knows how they ended up with Daryl Dixon, reclusive redneck and crossbow extraordinaire. There's no doubt the three of them can survive the apocalypse, but can they survive each other?
1. That One's Mine

**I got this random idea and decided to run with it... Let me know what you think!**

The woods were quiet apart from the shuffling steps and low growls of a lone walker, wandering mindlessly through the trees, gnashing its teeth, decayed flesh beginning to fall away from its bones-

There was the twin sounds of a bowstring and a silenced bullet and the walker dropped dead. Again.

A rough looking man with long hair hanging in his eyes and no sleeves stepped from his hiding place carrying a crossbow, already loaded in preparation for another shot. "That one's mine," he announced, going to fetch his bolt from the corpse.

"The fuck it is," another man replied as he came out into the open, both cleaner and better groomed, holding a gun and speaking with an Irish accent. "'Twas my shot, an' ye fuckin' know it, Dixon."

"Like hell, MacManus! My bolt hit first, you took too damn long praying for the son of a bitch! You ain't shot shit first in weeks!"

"Ye're so full a shit! I got the fucker three days ago that nearly bit ye when ye were too fuckin' busy playin' Robin Hood an' tryin' ta reload yer stupid fuckin' bow! I saved yer sorry ass!"

"Then we're even for when that one came up on ya and you were so drunk you couldn't handle your own knife and dropped the damn thing, you asshole!"

"Would ye both keep yer fuckin' voices down?" a third man asked, dark blond hair sticking up in all directions and also speaking with an accent. "Ye'll draw every undead fucker for miles, ye keep this shit up."

"Connor, tell him," the second man urged, "I killed that one, he's lost it if he thinks different."

"I don't _think_ shit, it's a fact."

"Ye've both lost it, now let's keep moving, for fuck's sake."

They moved ahead, still arguing, and Connor shook his head in irritation. Between his hotheaded twin and the combative redneck, they'd be lucky if he didn't lose his fucking marbles and kill them both before walkers did.

 **I've got a few ideas, but if you've got a thought or two for some trouble the boys can get into, let me know and we'll see what we can make happen. :)**


	2. Whose Knife Is It Anyway?

**Yep, I'm still at it. Enjoy!**

Murphy searched through his gear one more time, cursing softly to himself before giving up in irritation and getting to his feet. "Out with it, Dixon," he said, "where the fuck's my knife?"

"The hell're you talkin' about?" Daryl asked, not looking up from servicing his crossbow.

"I'm talkin' about how me fuckin' knife's gone! What the fuck have ye done with it?"

"I ain't done shit with your damn knife, MacManus."

"Oh, that's so?" Murphy demanded. "Then what the fuck's this?" He leaned down and snatched up the hunting knife sitting on the ground next to Daryl.

"Hey!" Daryl barked. "That's mine!" He reached to take it back but Murphy held it away. "Gimme that!"

"I don't fuckin' think so! It's mine!"

"The hell it is, dumbass! Hand over my damn knife!"

"It's _my_ damn knife, ye fuckwit!"

"You idiot son of a-"

They tackled each other at the same time, each trying to wrestle the knife away from the other. They were perfectly matched, the exact same size, nearly the exact same build, scrapping and grappling in dirt with no regard for how much noise they were making...

Neither heard the shuffling steps of the walker as it approached, only noticing its growling as it was almost upon them, and neither could reach a weapon in time-

Connor hurried up behind it and stabbed it in the head, looking fed up. "Are ye fuckin' serious?" he asked. "I'm out riskin' my arse ta set up alarms an' the two a ye are back here fightin' like a couple a fuckin' kids, biters hearin' yer stupid bickerin' and comin' up on ye, an' ye don't even fuckin' _notice?"_

"Sorry, Connor," Murphy mumbled, looking abashed but still glaring at Daryl. "But this fucker's gone an' knicked my fuckin' knife-"

" _I've_ got yer fuckin' knife, Murph," Connor interrupted, slapping it hilt-first into his twin's hand. "Give him his back an' start keepin' track a yer shit."

Murphy handed Daryl the knife back and grudgingly helped the archer drag the dead walker away from their camp while Connor scowled and considered tying the two of them together until they started getting along.

 **As you might have guessed, there's no plot to this whatsoever. And Murph and Daryl *might* eventually get along. Who knows? Thoughts on the chapter? Ideas for another? Let me hear it!**


End file.
